


Oh Misery! I Sure Could Use Some Company

by illgiveyouallofme



Category: Black Sails
Genre: (Maybe not so cute???), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anti-social!Flint, Canon Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Modern Era, Past Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, hiding in bathroom stalls, two broken men finding each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illgiveyouallofme/pseuds/illgiveyouallofme
Summary: I heard you crying in the bathroom at a bar and asked, "Everything okay?" Except it obviously isn't okay and I'm an idiot.Alternate Title:What's a Guy Like You Doing in a Place Like This?
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 20
Kudos: 136
Collections: Black Sails Gift Exchange 2019





	Oh Misery! I Sure Could Use Some Company

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twofrontteethstillcrooked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/gifts).



> This is my Black Sails Holiday Gift Exchange for @twofrontteethstillcrooked!! I hope you enjoy it! Happy Holidays!!
> 
>   
> Title from Misery by P!nk

James hated bars. He hated mandatory social functions. And, most of all, James hated lawyers (except for Miranda, of course). Add all three together, and they equaled one hell of a headache. _Bah Humbug_ , James thought sourly. He wanted to go home. 

When Miranda had asked him to her faculty holiday party, he’d known it was a bad idea. He’d only agreed because he owed her a lifetime of favors. Yet, the churning feeling in his gut didn’t go away throughout the entire party at overpriced restaurant paid for by the university. And it only intensified when Miranda informed him that they would also be attending the after party, at the only bar in town not swarming with undergraduate students celebrating the end of finals. 

Of the group that had stuck around for the after party, one man in particular contributed the most to James’s migraine. James couldn’t remember his name — Forrest? Stick? Definitely something ridiculous. Each time he spoke, James felt as though an ice pick were driving through his right eye. And when he started espousing (loudly, too loudly) the merits of a strong executive power, James _wanted_ to drive an ice pick through his right eye. Anything to make the pain of listening to this man go away. 

Deciding to take somewhat less drastic measures, James stood. To Miranda, he jerked his head in the direction of the men’s bathroom. She nodded at him, before opening her mouth to respond to the man’s nonsense. He could tell by the look on her face that she was gearing up for a good argument. He didn’t need to be there to know that this wouldn’t end well for the man. Miranda was one of the few professors who still practiced law, and she regularly and meticulously sharpened her cross-examination skills, like one would with any weapon. She smiled wolfishly at the man. Even her impeccable manners wouldn’t save him now. 

As James retreated to the bathroom, he heard her say, “Excuse me, Woodes, but you can’t seriously be implying that we return to colonial rule because it _benefits the citizenry?_ ” Woodes, that was it. A pretentious fucking name for a pretentious fucking man, he thought. He liked “Stick” better. 

He shook his head. _Damn_ , he would’ve liked to see the look on old Woodesy’s face. 

Even the bathroom was crowded, to his dismay. James spied an open stall near the back and headed there. He closed the door and leaned against it, closing his eyes and reveling in his solitude. Perhaps he’d stay in this stall all night. He heard the men using the urinals leave, without washing their hands, and shook his head in disgust. _Alone at last._ He turned, pants still on, and sat on the toilet. Here, in this tiny two foot by three foot stall, he was more at peace than he’d felt all night. The bathroom, he thought, that was where he belonged. This was his home now.

Tinny Christmas music piped through the speakers, breaking the silence of the momentarily-deserted bathroom. After a moment, however, James realized he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought. From the stall beside his, he heard someone sniffle, then let out a shaky breath. Whoever was in there was crying, and trying very hard not to be heard. 

James waited a moment for the man to collect himself and leave James’s new home. It was only when he heard the sound of soft sobbing that he realized he might have a permanent neighbor.

_Sometimes in life, man faces a crossroad. A moment when the choice between action and inaction is so clear, it is as though he can see the two paths literally paving the way in front of him. And here, in this nearly-empty bathroom in a seedy bar three days before Christmas, the artist formerly known as James McGraw-Hamilton had one of those moments. The choice was obvious: either he could leave the bathroom quietly, pretending not to have heard the man beside him, or he could say something. The man, James assumed, would probably prefer he take the former action. But James was nothing if not a major disappointment to well-mannered people everywhere._

“Everything okay?” James asked.

The muffled crying next door subsided abruptly. In the silence that followed, James cursed himself in all five languages he knew. He probably should have just left the bathroom, gone back to Miranda and Stick, and attempted to survive the rest of the evening. This was…lunacy. _Oh hell,_ he thought, _he was in it now. Might as well go for broke._

“Obviously,” he began, “everything isn’t okay, or you wouldn’t be crying in a stall in a public bathroom. And now you must be wondering, ‘who is this insane man next to me who won’t leave me alone to be miserable in peace?’” 

On the other side of the stall, sobs subsided into sniffles. James kept talking. Once, Thomas had told him that he had a way with words. That his mouth could get him out of any situation. Back then, when Thomas was around, James had had a knack for getting others to agree with him. Now, it seemed his mouth only served to get him _into_ trouble. 

“Well, I must admit, I may not be the sanest person you’ll ever meet – I am considering moving into this bathroom permanently so I don’t have to face my friend’s horrendous colleagues again. But, I promise I’m not crazy. I’ve just been…where you are. Well, not literally perhaps, I’ve never cried in this specific bathroom before. But there is a rather long list of public places where I have cried. So I think I may know some of what you’re feeling.” 

Though there was only silence from the other stall, James had the distinct impression that his neighbor was listening to him. He continued, forging ahead with only his words to chop away the underbrush. 

“Shall I list some of the places I’ve cried? Let me see, there’s been the movies, of course, though I don’t think anyone else can say they’ve cried in line while waiting for popcorn; one time at a McDonald’s drive-thru – doubly shameful, that one – once at a baseball game, in a mall parking lot, at three different symphonies, and in every museum I’ve been to in the last four years. It’s a bit embarrassing, actually. I’m amazed Miranda will still let herself be seen with me.”  
He paused, waiting, hoping for some response that would allow him to stop talking. When it came, it was rather unexpected.

“Is Miranda your wife?” the man in the next stall asked. His voice sounded like he’d been chewing gravel. Yet, even in those four words there was a melodious quality to it that sent a thrill through James. Maybe it was just the rush of getting a response to his rambling; he refused to look too much into it.

“No,” he said, his voice going soft, as it often did when thinking of Miranda. Though she was right outside the door, undoubtedly sipping a Manhattan while Stick tried to pull the pieces of himself off the floor, he couldn’t help the smile that ghosted across his face. He owed her so much. “Miranda is my best friend. She’s the one who introduced me to my husband.”

“Oh,” came the response. 

“I’m James, by the way,” James said. Better to be known by his name than by “Crazy-Man-Who-Talks-To-People-While-They’re-Sobbing-In-A-Bathroom-Stall”.  


“John,” said the other voice. _John_ , he thought. It may not have been much, but it was a start.

“So John,” James said, “what brings you here today?” He was going for levity, but it fell somewhat short as John made a startled noise in his throat. 

“My friends,” he said. “It’s been a while since I’ve … gone out. They thought it might cheer me up.”

“Ah,” said James. “It’s worked wonderfully, I can see. Where are your friends now?” 

“At the bar, probably,” said John. “They tried to follow me in here, but I told them to fuck off. They’re good guys, really, just a bit thick. They keep buying me shots and saying, ‘We’ll take care of you.’ As though that isn’t the absolute last thing I want to hear.” He sighed. That was the most words he’d spoken yet, and James was grateful to hear his voice grow steadier. His voice was still wrecked, but at least the tears seemed to have stopped. 

James leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He wanted to keep the conversation going but didn’t know how. From his experience, it was good to talk about these things, even when one didn’t want to. Yet, he had only ever talked to Miranda about his pain after losing Thomas, never some stranger at a bar. Now, he was the stranger, prying into this man’s life. He really should stop, he thought. But something in him urged him on, told him to keep talking. 

“You don’t have to answer,” he started, voice soothing, the way one would talk to a scared horse, “but if you wanted to talk about why you’ve stopped going out, I’m here. After all, I do live in this stall now.” 

From the other stall, James heard John huff out a breath, the mere ghost of a laugh. He imagined John – a smoky figure with a hypnotic voice – shaking his head, running his hands over his face. 

“Why do you care?” 

_A very good question_ , James thought. 

“I don’t, I suppose,” James said slowly, measuring the words as he said them, “Not in any real sense – it likely will have no effect on my life whether you tell me or not. But… like I said, I’ve been where you are right now, and I know that sometimes it’s better to just say the thing that’s been wearing on you. Even though it feels like you might have to split your soul open to say it. So, if you can’t say it to your friends out there, I thought maybe you could tell me.”

When John didn’t say anything for long moments, James thought he’d lost him. Thought John would stand, say “That’s enough,” and walk out of the stall. For reasons he couldn’t explain, this idea bothered James. Maybe because it was the first real conversation he’d had with anyone in a long time. Maybe he was just a tired, lonely man. 

Still, James sat there and waited. If John wanted to leave the bathroom, James would give him the privacy to do so. If he wanted to talk longer, well, James wouldn’t mind that either. 

After what seemed like ages, he heard a shuffling sound from next door. He waited with bated breath, preparing to hear the stall door open. Instead, John pushed his foot into James’s stall, startling James. He had on a nice shoe, James thought inanely, brown leather with laces and a white rubber sole. Despite the likeability of the shoe, James remained puzzled as to its presence in his stall. His questions only multiplied as John’s fingers reached under the stall wall so that they, too, were in James’s sight. John had strong hands, with thick fingers adorned with clunky silver and turquoise rings. James couldn’t help but be attracted to them – he’d always had a thing for a man’s hands. 

Focusing on what the hands were doing, rather than how they looked, James watched as John tugged his pant-leg up his shin. Except it wasn’t his shin, it was a shiny, new-looking prosthetic limb.

“ _Fuck_ ,” James breathed, fighting to keep his voice steady. His heart broke for the man next to him. “How long?”

“Six months.” John said. “It hasn’t quite sunk in yet: there’s always this moment, when I first wake up…Well, let’s just say I’ve fallen on my face too many times to count.” 

James didn’t know what to say. He’d thought it that what had upset John so was a breakup, maybe. Or that he’d gotten fired from his job. He had never imagined – could never imagine – that it would be something like this. 

“Can I see you?” he asked. 

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just … I don’t want that to be all I know of you, even if we’re never to meet again after this. I don’t want this to be the only image in my head.”

“How could it not be?” John asked, voice turning harsh, bitter. “How could anyone look at me and see anything more than a one-legged man?”

Again, James was at a loss for words. “Please,” he pleaded. He truly didn’t know why this was so important to him – why a five-minute conversation in a bar bathroom seemed like a pivotal moment in his life – but it was, and it did. And he’d learned long ago not to question this feeling in his gut. It was what led him to Thomas, after all. 

“If you’re sure,” John said, resignation replacing the bitterness of a moment ago. 

“I am.” 

To show his sincerity, James stood and opened the door to his stall. He took a few steps toward the sinks, then turned and leaned against them, giving John the time and space he needed to open the door. He knew John could hear him, would know that he was waiting. 

After the world’s longest minute, John opened the door to the stall and stepped out. James fought to keep his breath steady as he took in the sight of John. Despite the puffiness around his eyes, he was _exquisite_ – there was really no other way to put it. He had features that shouldn’t have worked together – a mouth slightly too broad, startling blue eyes sunk deep into his face, a wide nose – but they did, _oh god_ , they did. James’s fingers twitched as his eyes landed on John’s hair, shoulder-length curls that he wanted to sink his hands into. And his body, good lord, James wanted to _lick_ him. His blue Henley revealed just a hint of tanned skin and collarbone; his jeans hugged his trim hips perfectly. Really, it was too much for any mortal man to handle. And James had long since come to terms with his own mortality.

Heat shot through James like lightning, the strength of his own desire sending shock waves underneath his skin. It had been a long time since he’d wanted someone, and here in this bathroom, with this man, it seemed surreal. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep at the table while Stick droned on about his latest accomplishments. Or perhaps he’d made it to the bathroom, but then slipped and hit his head on the stall door and fell into a coma. Any scenario seemed more likely than the reality James was currently experiencing. 

Under James’s scrutiny, John shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Drawing his treacherous eyes up from John’s exposed collarbone, James cursed his self-absorption. Though John was clearly several years younger than James, maybe in his early thirties or so, there were lines around his eyes that shouldn’t have been there. To James, those lines spoke more of grief and hardship than any missing limb could have.  
“Hey,” he murmured, “it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just…” John trailed off. “It’s been awhile since I’ve met anyone new, especially anyone who wasn’t wearing a white coat and stethoscope.”

For the second time that night, James’s heart broke for the man standing in front of him. He didn’t understand why he felt so strongly for this man he’d only just met and knew next-to-nothing about, but he did. He would figure it all out later, once the voice in his ear – the one that sounded suspiciously like Thomas – stopped whispering its encouragements.

“For the record,” James said, “your leg is the last thing I see when I look at you. I know we’ve only just met, and under odd circumstances, so I hope this isn’t out of line. But John, you’re beautiful. And anyone who tells you otherwise is either blind or a liar of the utmost degree.” 

Suddenly, James was besieged by a tangle of curls flying at him. John knocked into him, his arms wrapping tightly around James’s waist before he could even process what was happening. His arms rose of their own volition and encircled the man clinging to him, sobbing desperately. Some long-dormant instinct in James flared to life as he began to soothe his hands down John’s back. He marveled at how well they fit together as he whispered nonsense over the top of John’s head. 

“Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay. You’re strong, darling, you’ll make it through this.” 

How long they stood like that, James couldn’t tell. It could have been a minute, an hour, a year. All he knew was that something stirred inside him that he hadn’t felt since he’d last held Thomas. And he didn’t want to let that feeling – or this man – go.

Finally, John’s tears subsided once more, and he straightened. He pushed away from James and turned to face the mirror. He wouldn’t meet James’s eye.

“I’m sorry…for that,” he said.

James placed a hand on John’s shoulder, saying nothing. He was an interloper into John’s life, into his pain. And there was nothing he could say to make it better. John sucked in a deep breath before continuing.

“It’s just…with my friends, I can’t tell them how much this fucking sucks. They can’t handle seeing me weak, and I can’t handle them seeing me weak. So, here you are, a random stranger, and I just…I don’t know.” 

“I get it,” James said, “truly, I do. And struggling with what you’re going through doesn’t make you weak, it makes you human. And a damn strong one at that.”

John smiled, thin and watery. “Thanks,” he said, “for…whatever this is.”

“Anytime,” James said. “And thank you, for opening that door.” He nodded toward the stall. John laughed softly, a low rumble in his chest. He looked back at the entrance to the bathroom, his face hardening where there was softness a moment before. 

“Do we have to go back out there?” he asked. 

“Unfortunately, I think we do,” James said. “But no one said we have to stay – fancy a crappy coffee? I know a terrible twenty-four hour diner around the corner from here.” 

*

The diner really was terrible. As they entered, John looked around, taking in the scene. It was like something out of a bad TV show – the green vinyl booths, chipped beige tiles, plastic countertop, and one cranky waitress who’d pulled the short straw and had to work the night shift. There was even a jukebox in the corner, wearily grinding out Elvis Christmas songs.

James chuckled at the look of pure disgust on John’s face. Since they’d left the bar — him by kissing Miranda on the cheek and John by texting his friends: “met someone. later m8s” — John seemed in much better spirits. And James, having gotten to walk with John’s hand tucked into his elbow (for stability, of course), was feeling pretty great himself. 

“I told you,” James whispered conspiratorially, “It’s bad. But anything beats where we were.” 

John smiled, sliding into the booth across from James. “At least it smells better than the men’s bathroom,” he said. His cheeks and nose were flushed an alluring pink from the cold, contrasting sharply with the blue of his eyes. Where he’d previously had neat curls, the city wind had whipped them into a frenzy so now they spread about John’s head like some sort of halo. James wanted to tug a curl between his finger and watch it spring back into place. He moved his hands to his lap, afraid their fidgeting would reveal something he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge, never mind let John see. 

A few beats passed in silence, as each man sized the other up and wondered how, exactly, they’d ended up here. 

“So,” John started, twirling the salt shaker between his hands. His voice was light, but the way he refused to look at James gave him away. “So,” he repeated, “you’re married?”

_Oh._

“Yes,” he said, the word falling out of his mouth and landing heavily on the table between them. The salt shaker spun faster in John’s hands. “Well, I should say, I was married. My husband Thomas passed away several years ago.” 

“Fuck,” John said.

“Yeah.”

They lapsed into silence once more, both affixing their eyes to the movements of the salt shaker. Each time James thought it was going to spin off the table and shatter on the linoleum floor, John caught it between deft fingers. It was dizzying. Finally, James couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Hey,” he said, reaching out and placing his hands lightly on John’s. He thought John would pull away, but he didn’t. John’s hands were still chilled from the cold, so James took one hand between both of his and held it for warmth, his thumb soothing the calloused skin of John’s palm. John looked at him, eyes yearning and filled with an emotion that James couldn’t name. 

Before he could say anything else, the waitress came over and – without so much as a word – slapped down John’s blueberry pancakes and James’s full English breakfast. She continued not to speak as she refilled their coffee with more lukewarm sludge, just grunting at their murmured thanks. 

With the food in between them, the conversation flowed more easily than it had mere moments before. James learned that John had been accepted to law school – the very one Miranda taught at – the previous semester, but had to defer due to his leg. He learned that John had no family in the area, but that he considered his friends to be his brothers. James shared stories from his latest disastrous project at work – he was an architect and his contractors were frustratingly useless – and told John about how Miranda wanted him to go on a diet to get rid of his “Dad Bod,” whatever that was. 

He really thought John was going to pass out from laughing at that one. 

By the time their plates were clean (licked clean, in John’s case), James didn’t want the night to end. His face hurt from smiling so much. Still, the hour was late, and he had to be on site early in the morning. 

He stood, holding out a hand for John to take. He was struck once more by how random this meeting was. But he’d had a good time, and he wasn’t ready to let that be the end. 

“Can I see you again?” he asked John as he hailed him a cab. (John had mentioned something called _Über_ , but that sounded much too complicated for James’s tired old brain to handle.)

“That depends,” John said, voice growing deeper. John stepped nearer to James, peering up through his lashes with a look that could only be described as flirtatious. Apparently, James wasn’t the only one who’d enjoyed their unexpected date. James’s mouth quirked into a smile.

“On?”

“On whether you kiss me goodnight,” John said, pressing in closer. Despite his bold answer, uncertainty flashed through John’s eyes. James stopped, his lips only a hairsbreadth away from John’s. 

“Goodnight, John,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to John’s cheek instead. It took nearly all of his self-control to do it, but he wouldn’t kiss John if that wasn’t what he truly wanted. He straightened away from John, ignoring the Greek chorus in his head screaming for him take John into his arms and kiss him for real. He began to turn away.

“Wait!” John called, grabbing him by the arm. He tugged James back and into his chest, pulling their lips together desperately. John’s lips were warm and inviting beneath his own as they spread open, letting James sweep his tongue inside. He smiled against John’s lips – he tasted like blueberries and syrup.

“Thank you,” John said, “for seeing me.”

James helped him into the cab and watched as it drove off. In one hand, he held his phone, screen displaying a new contact, “John Silver ;)”. His other hand absentmindedly brushed his lips, still warm and sticky from where John’s had been moments before. He felt as though his world had been set alight – like John had come in and illuminated the darkness enveloping him. 

_He saw me too_ , James thought. As he walked the two blocks back to his apartment, James hummed Elvis’s version of “White Christmas” under his breath.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing a fic for someone, and I really hope you liked it!
> 
> [This](https://pics.alphacoders.com/pictures/view/172512) is the inspiration for Silver's look. Flint would look something like [ this.](https://www.emmys.com/news/mix/personal-space-0)
> 
> Kudos/Comments are much appreciated :)


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